


You Learn How to Howl

by Tawryn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Pack Family, Scent Marking, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-13 01:16:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7956433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tawryn/pseuds/Tawryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where injuries are mirrored on your soul mate’s body, Stiles Stilinski is pretty sure that his soul mate has a death wish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

_"If you run with wolves, you will learn how to howl."_

* * *

  

Stiles was pretty sure that his soul mate had a death wish.

He’d taken a few guesses as to what kind of career his soul mate could possibly have-- professional boxer, double agent, low-level mob flunky-- but really, there was just no simple explanation for the cuts and bruises that appeared on Stiles’ body with alarming frequency.

At least he didn’t have to _feel_ the marks. Sometimes, like one memorable morning this past summer, they were really bad. His whole chest and stomach had been black and blue, covered in slashes like someone had been trying to disembowel him. Stiles had been terrified that was it, it had to be over, until he’d gotten another set of painless bruises on his knuckles a few days later. Honestly, he didn’t know how his soul mate was even still _alive_ at the point.

He was three months into senior year and just about every week that he had a new set of war wounds courtesy of his mystery man. Or woman, maybe, but something about the frequency and placement of the marks had always made him suspect it was a dude.

“Another one?” Scott sighed.

Scott was his de-facto best friend, by virtue of having spent the entire summer working together at Scoops Ice Cream Parlor. Stiles’ dad had accepted a job offer right at the end of the last school year, so they’d packed up and moved to Beacon Hills pretty much the day after school let out. He hadn’t really been looking forward to starting senior year in a new town where he knew absolutely no one and he considered it some kind of divine intervention that he’d happened to meet Scott on his second day in Beacon Hills. They’d both been applying for a job at Scoops and when they were both hired, they’d spent the entire summer bonding over their love of ice cream, lacrosse, and video games.

Stiles touched his blackened eye and shrugged. “Yeah. What do you think, muay thai fighter?”

“Dude,” Scott said, shaking his head. “With how often they get punched in the face, your soul mate is either a badass or a _massive_ dick.”

“Pray for the former, plan for the latter,” Lydia Martin added unhelpfully. She took her usual seat next to Stiles. “Another soul mark, I see. Quite honestly, I’m surprised your soul mate can manage to keep getting all those bruises week after week. Whoever they are, they’re either a glutton for punishment or they have some superior healing abilities.”

“And here I am praying for stamina,” Stiles said, wiggling his eyebrows. He looked over at Scott, expecting him to add on to the joke but instead caught him staring off into space, a weirdly pensive look on his face. “Scott?”

“Sorry.” Scott shook his head quickly. “Hey, you have any plans today?”

“Nope. What’s up?”

“You should come over after school,” Scott said. “There’s something I wanna show you.”

-

“Holy shit.”

“You’re not freaking out are you?” Scott said, looking worried. “You said you wouldn’t freak out.”

“ _Holy shit._ ”

“You’re freaking out.”

“You’re a werewolf!” Stiles shouted. “That is so fucking cool!”

Scott took a breath and then paused. “Wait. What?”

“So you can change any time, right? Not just at full moons obviously.” Stiles stood up and started gesturing with his hands. “Can you change into a full wolf, like four legs and everything? Are you allergic to silver? If you bite me, do _I_ become a werewolf too? Have you always--”

“Okay, whoa, slow down,” Scott laughed. His face morphed back into its normal Scott shape, the fangs and hair disappearing. “I can’t change any more than that, but I’ve seen other werewolves that can. And I’m not allergic to silver, but there’s this stuff called wolfsbane that’s pretty nasty.”

“What about the biting thing?”

“I’m only a beta, so I can’t turn anybody. You have to get bitten by an alpha to turn, like the one who bit me,” he explained. His face grew a little more serious. “That happened like two years ago.”

“So, wait, _what_ happened exactly? Some alpha werewolf just strolled up to you and said, ‘Hey, Scott McCall, how would you like to be a werewolf?’” Stiles asked.

Scott shook his head. “Not really. I was in the woods and I got bitten by this rogue alpha. Who turned out to be totally crazy, by the way. When the change happened I had no idea what was going on until I met Derek. Long story short, we took down the alpha who bit me and now Derek is the alpha and I’m in his pack.”

“Whoa. That’s intense, man.” Stiles had to admit he felt kind of awed. “How many people are in a wolf pack?”

“I think however many you want, but there’s just the five of us right now,” he said. “But anyway, there was a reason for all of this, I mean, a reason why I decided to show you.”

“Aw, so it’s not because we’re ready to take the next step in our bromance? Our love transcending secrets?”

Scott grinned. “Well, yeah, obviously. But no, it’s something that Lydia said today about your soul mate.”

“That they have great stamina?”

“No,” Scott said. “She said they must have superior healing abilities. And werewolves heal really fast.”

Stiles finally put the pieces together. “You think it’s a werewolf?”

“Totally. Look, watch this.” Scott breathed out and extended his claws. Stiles watched as he took his forefinger and drew it down his arm, cutting into the skin and leaving a red line of blood. Then Scott pulled the claws back in and took a palm to his forearm, wiping the blood away. Under that smear of red? Not even a scratch.

“Holy fuck, dude,” Stiles said. “Holy _fuck_.”

And that was how Stiles learned, almost definitively, that his soul mate was a werewolf.

-

“Okay, but listen, how will I be prepared for my future wolfy love if I never get to interact with some actual, real life werewolves?” Stiles pleaded. It’d been two weeks since the big reveal and Scott had been uncharacteristically adamant about not introducing him to the wolves in his pack.

“You don’t understand,” he sighed. “This world goes, like, way deeper than you think. Way deeper than just you and me and the others. If I bring you in, you can’t leave.”

“What is this, Fight Club?” Stiles replied incredulously. “The Wolf Mafia? Are you in some kind of supernatural gang? I knew that gang resistance program was a waste of tax dollars.”

“It’s _dangerous_ , Stiles.” Scott’s eyes flashed yellow and Stiles found himself swallowing his next retort. “The kind of bad stuff that goes with this life... you can’t just dip your toes into this. Once you’re in, you’re in neck deep. You’re always gonna have to watch your back. And I don’t know if I can let you be in danger like that.”

Stiles digested that for a few moments in silence.

“Scotty, if that’s true then I’m already in danger,” he said gently. “Being your friend puts me in danger. Being some werewolf’s soul mate puts me in danger.” He met Scott’s eyes. “And if I’m going to be in danger, then I should at least know what that danger is.”

Scott met his gaze for a few breaths, unblinking, before he sighed and nodded.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll talk to Derek.”

And so that was how, the next day, Stiles found himself sitting on a fold out chair in Derek Hale’s front yard. First impressions?

If there was a trophy for sexiest werewolf alive, Derek Hale probably had three of them on his mantle.

And really, that was saying something considering that Erica, Boyd, and Isaac were pretty damn good-looking themselves. Stiles wasn’t sure if it was the change that made them sexy or if it was some kind of pre-bite requirement, but Derek? He had these gorgeous, soulful eyes, just the right amount of stubble, and he was wearing a _leather jacket_.

Stiles might’ve been in love.

“So, Scott tells me he thinks you may have a werewolf soul mate,” Derek said.

Stiles nodded. “Yeah.”

“And what do you think?”

He blinked, a little taken aback that Derek wanted his own opinion. “I think he’s right. I mean, my soul marks are pretty extreme. Before I knew about werewolves, I used to wonder how my mate could survive some of them. And sometimes, the marks are like…” He curled his fingers into an approximation of a clawed hand and dragged it across his stomach. “It makes sense.”

Derek nodded, seemingly mulling that information over. Then he leaned in and gave Stiles a friendly slap on the shoulder. “Guess that settles it then. Welcome to the pack.”

“Uh, what?” asked Stiles, feeling his eyebrows leave the solar system. He looked over at Scott, whose face had been suddenly schooled into a sheepish expression.

“Yeah, man, so it turns out that werewolves are honor bound to protect the potential mates of other werewolves.” Scott let out a nervous little laugh. “Crazy, huh? I had no idea.”

“Wait, but don’t you have to be a werewolf to be in a _werewolf_ pack?” Stiles asked Derek.

“Oh, you will be,” Derek growled menacingly, his lips curling up at the edges.

Stiles jumped out of his chair so fast he knocked it over. Jesus, but was Derek’s growl hot. He wasn’t sure if he had the beginnings of a fear boner or if that'd actually turned him on a little. He wasn’t sure that he _cared_.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m just fucking with you,” Derek laughed. “No, you don’t have to be a werewolf. Do you want to be?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles answered. And honestly, he didn’t. He knew that the bite wasn’t 100% safe. But he hadn’t really given it much consideration outside of the disjointed tangle of thoughts that plagued him whenever he had trouble falling asleep.

“That’s okay. It’s a big decision. And it’s up to your mate, anyway.”

“How progressive,” Stiles muttered under his breath.

Derek snorted. “I meant that it’s your mate’s decision to offer you the bite. You’re free to accept or refuse.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes and turned to Scott. “I think you failed to mention the supernatural hearing.”

“Oh, yeah,” Scott said slowly. “It’s all the senses, really. And there’s the strength thing, too.”

Stiles sighed. “How did you manage to skip over all the cool things?”

“Healing is cool!” Scott protested.

“Alright,” Derek interrupted. “I’ve got to get back to training my betas now. Stiles, it was nice meeting you. Why don’t you come by Friday night for pack dinner?”

“ _That’s_ why you’re busy every Friday?”

“Sure thing,” Scott answered for him. “He’ll be there.”

-

Werewolves knew how to eat. Derek had ordered five different kinds of pizza and two pans of pasta for pack dinner, and the six of them had no trouble polishing all of it off.

Well, the wolves hadn’t had any trouble with it.

“I’m dying,” Stiles moaned, holding his stomach. “Curse you, Scott, for bringing me into this viper’s nest.”

“I told you not to have that last piece.”

“It was peer pressure,” Stiles responded, pouting.

Erica rolled her eyes. “Am I really gonna have to listen to you bitch for the next hour?” She leaned over and grabbed his wrist. Stiles watched in fascination as the veins on her arms pulsed black, disappearing under her sleeve. When she pulled her hand back, Stiles realized that his stomach ache was gone.

“What’d you just do?”

“Took your pain,” she said. “Don’t go eating any more though, you’re still full even if you can’t feel it. I draw the line at cleaning up puke.”

“Whoa,” Stiles said. He turned to Scott. “Can you do that too?”

“Yeah, but Erica and Derek are best at it,” said Scott. He picked up a controller and nodded toward the TV. “You up for a Smash tournament?”

“What the hell kind of question is that?” he scoffed. “Is the Space Pope reptilian? Of course, I’m down.”

They decided on single elimination and he ended up getting knocked out by Isaac, who killed him with Sheik and did not hold back the shit talk. Stiles gave as good as he got and then retreated to the kitchen where Derek was sitting with a cup of coffee.

“Hey.” Stiles took the seat two down from him at the breakfast bar. “You didn’t want to play?”

“Not really my kind of game,” Derek said.

“But you have a kind of game.” Stiles grinned. “What is it?”

“I’m more of a Skyrim, Civ V, kind of guy,” he answered easily, keeping his eyes on Stiles as he took a sip of coffee. Stiles felt his face growing hot under the scrutiny.

“So then would you say that you’re a power-hungry dictator or more of a lone wolf?”

“Maybe I’m a misunderstood hero.” Derek replied, returning his smile. “One who used to be an adventurer like you until I took an arrow to the knee.”

Stiles groaned and rubbed a hand over his face, shaking his head, but it was mostly to hide the big, doofy expression he probably had going on. It was totally unfair for someone as hot as Derek to be a closet dork. Like honestly, it should’ve been against the laws of nature.

“So, what do you think about joining the pack?” Derek asked.

“It’s nice, I guess. Everyone seems cool enough. But I’m still not sure what exactly the danger in me not joining is.” He thought about Scott’s warnings. “Maybe it’s just me, but the world doesn’t really seem as bad as you guys make it out to be.”

“Don’t say that.” Derek’s face hardened, all traces of a smile falling away. He stared at Stiles, his eyes flat and serious. “Don’t even think that. The moment you start thinking that’s true is the moment you’re dead.”

And alright, that was a little morbid.

“I thought that once,” Derek continued. “I thought that our world wasn’t as dangerous as my mother said it was. Someone took advantage of that. And as soon as I let my guard down, she killed my entire family.”

Stiles had never read Emily Post, but he was pretty sure there were no suggestions on _how to express condolences for the murder of one’s entire family_. Jesus. It felt weak, but he went with a simple, “I’m sorry.”

Derek looked down into his cup. “It’s alright. It was a long time ago.”

“That doesn’t always make it hurt less,” he found himself saying. “My mom died when I was eight and sometimes it still feels like it happened yesterday.”

Stiles bit his lip. He’d never even told Scott that. Who was Derek Hale to drag these confessions out of him?

“Yeah, I get that,” Derek replied. The moment stretched out, stifling and thick with ghosts of the past between them, until Stiles couldn’t take it anymore.

“Sorry for killing the mood.” He rubbed his fingers on the countertop. “Can you tell me more about what being in a pack is like?”

Derek gave him a half shrug and gestured to the living room where Stiles could hear Boyd and Scott arguing over which stage they wanted to use for their match. “It’s basically what you see is what you get. There’s not many of us, but we’ll have your back. Pack is family and family comes first, always.”

Stiles didn’t want to say it, but part of him desperately craved that. Growing up as the only child of a single parent? Of course he’d had dreams about what it would be like to live in the chaos of a big family, coming home to screams and commotion instead of being the latchkey kid who had to let himself into a quiet house.

“So, that’s it? I won’t get any kind of wolf magic contact buzz? No secret initiation rites? Illegal hazing?”

“Well actually, there _is_ an induction ritual,” Derek conceded. “But it’s nothing too extreme.”

“I knew it! Let me guess, a ritual that takes place under the light of a full moon?”

Derek huffed a short laugh. “Nowhere near that cliché. It’s the new moon.”

He said it so completely matter-of-fact that it took Stiles a second to realize he was joking.

“You,” he said, “are a very funny werewolf.”

“I try.” Some of the warmth was back Derek’s eyes and Stiles couldn’t help admiring how much more handsome it made him. “Listen, I’m not going to force you to join the pack if you don’t want to,” Derek continued. “I’m not that kind of alpha.”

“More of an enthusiastic consent kind of alpha, huh?” Stiles said, unthinkingly. He felt his face flush as his brain belatedly processed his words, but Derek just rolled his eyes.

“Let me see your phone,” Derek said. Stiles gave it up and watched Derek quickly tap something in before handing it back. “There’s my number. Take some time to think about it and then let me know when you decide. And if you ever want to text me just to talk, that door’s open too. Alright?”

“Yeah, cool.” Stiles pocketed the phone with hands that were definitely not sweaty. “Thanks, man.”

Later that night, after tossing and turning for hours, he sighed and reached over to type out the words weighing on his mind, only letting his finger hover over the send key for a few seconds before punching the button decisively:

_I’m in._

-

“You know, I half thought that I’d walk in to see masks and robes, but this is very not Goblet of Fire. I’m impressed.”

“We debated on it,” Scott joked. He led Stiles into the kitchen. “How you feeling? You remember your lines?”

“Yeah. I got this, bro,” Stiles replied, going in for a fist bump. He felt a little anxious though, particularly in the stomach region. He said a quick prayer to the digestive gods in hopes it would keep him from throwing up and embarrassing himself for all eternity.

“It’ll be fine, man. More than fine. Don’t be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’re ly-ing!” He heard a voice sing-song from the living room. “Don’t forget we can hear your heartbeat.”

“Thank you, Erica, for that reminder that I’ll never again have secrets after tonight,” Stiles muttered.

“Misery loves company,” she hollered back.

Scott waved a hand dismissively in a _‘don’t mind her’_ gesture. He grabbed Stiles shoulders and squeezed, grinning at him with soft eyes. “You ready? You can still turn back, you know. No pressure.”

“No, I want to do this.” Stiles closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting it out in a whoosh as he opened them. “I’m ready.”

Scott led him into the living room where the other wolves were waiting. The furniture had been pushed to the corners, leaving a large empty space. When they saw him, Erica, Boyd, Isaac, and Derek all formed a circle in silence. Scott guided him into the middle, gave him a final quick squeeze, and left to join the others. Everyone was wearing regular clothes as expected, something Stiles had _thought_ would make the magnitude of the ritual less intense. He wiped his palms on his jeans.

“Who enters this pack?” Derek asked, face carefully blank. At his side, he held a knife. A really, really big knife.

Stiles swallowed. “I, Stiles Stilinski, do.”

“What do you enter this pack with?”

“I enter this pack with a sound mind and loyal heart.”

“What do you bring to this pack?”

Stiles walked forward until he was standing right in front of Derek, looking into that stony face. His blood pounded, sounding like an ocean behind his ears, but his voice was steady as he spoke. “I bring nothing but my own self. My ears which will listen when you talk, my hands which will carry you should you fall, and my legs which will always walk beside you. I enter tonight as a guest, but I ask to leave as family.” He tilted his head and bared his neck, like Scott had showed him. “Can you accept me?”

Derek raised his arm and placed his hand over Stiles’ neck. His palm was warm and dry and a thrill of possession flickered low in Stiles’ gut.

“We accept you, Stiles Stilinski. Give us the blood in your veins, so that we know you will bleed for your pack.”

He handed Stiles the knife and Stiles took a moment to look at it. It was very obviously ceremonial, the hilt detailed with tiny moons and howling wolves. It was also warm in his grip, warm from being held by Derek, and for some reason it was that thought that grounded Stiles and made him certain he was doing the right thing. He walked over to stand in front of Scott and then flicked the blade across his fingertip, watching the blood bead up slowly. When it looked like enough, he squeezed a drop into Scott’s waiting mouth. Stiles watched as Scott’s eyes closed while he swallowed and then reopened, blazing yellow.

He moved on and did the same with each werewolf, each one swallowing his blood and opening glowing yellow eyes. When he got to Derek, he dropped his blood on Derek’s tongue and went to pull his hand away, but Derek reached up and wrapped his own hand around Stiles’, holding it in place. Stiles froze.

Derek closed his mouth around Stiles’ finger and laved his tongue over the cut, staring at Stiles with glowing red eyes. Stiles felt rooted to the spot, his breath unmoving in his chest. All coherent thought was gone. Nothing existed in that moment but Derek’s gaze, boring into him like a drill as his whole body vibrated with a strange heat.

Derek let go and blinked, his eyes fading back to normal, and whatever moment that had transpired was broken. He stared at Stiles, face unreadable, but looking like he was measuring something. Stiles felt compelled to tear his own gaze away in the face of that concentration; he glanced down at his finger, which surprisingly showed no trace of injury.

“Alpha saliva has healing properties,” offered Derek.

“Ah,” Stiles said simply. He looked around at the other wolves who stared at him quizzically, like they weren’t exactly sure what’d just happened either. Scott was the first to break the circle, walking up to him with a brilliant smile.

“Welcome to the family,” he said, bringing Stiles in for a hug. The other wolves quickly followed suit in their congratulations, passing Stiles around for hugs and touches that, while not inappropriate, were done with such casual intent that Stiles couldn’t help but feel like he’d been part of the pack for years. It lit him up with such joy that he had to swallow down a ridiculous urge to cry.

The weirdness of the ceremony passed and they ended the night with a sleepover. Derek laid blankets and pillows across the living room floor and they piled in front of the TV to watch B-horror movies and eat popcorn. Eventually, tucked between Scott and Erica, Stiles drifted off. He might’ve woken once, he thought, to the sight of Derek calmly studying him. But the strong sense of family and safety and _home_ had such a tranquilizing effect that when he woke in the morning to the sounds of breakfast being made, he figured that it’d probably been just a dream.

-

It was a few weeks before Stiles saw any real evidence of the danger Scott, Derek, and the others had warned him about. With Christmas fast approaching, he didn’t think he could be blamed for not noticing. He was still pretty new to the whole werewolf secret world thing after all.

He and Scott were in Stiles’ bedroom one afternoon doing homework when Scott asked, “Hey, you okay dude?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“I dunno, you just haven’t seemed like yourself lately, you know?” Scott looked at him with his big, sad eyes. “Is it the pack? Do you regret joining?”

“What? No, of course not,” Stiles said quickly. And he didn’t, not at all. He and Scott had been spending more and more time over at Derek’s and overall, Stiles considered it to be a huge improvement. Being surrounded by the pack somehow made him feel like a different person. More alive. “I just haven’t been sleeping much lately. It sucks. I’m tired all the time.”

Stiles didn’t mention the dreams. It wasn’t like he could describe them anyway, given that he could never remember much. They always just faded into wisps of nothing as soon as he started to try. It was like trying to grab smoke. But every so often he’d wake up having to catch his breath. Like he’d been running.

Like he’d been trying to get away from something.

Scott chewed his lip thoughtfully. “Do you sleep better at Derek’s?”

Stiles thought about the Friday night dinners that often turned into Friday night sleepovers. “Now that you mention it, yeah. I do,” he said.

“Me too,” Scott said. “I think it’s a pack thing. You could always try sleeping over there when you need to. Derek won’t mind.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea. It’s just a hassle to think about driving out to the Preserve every time I need to--” he stopped when he saw Scott’s expression morph into what Stiles liked to think of as his _‘my wolfy senses are tingling’_ look. “What?”

“Do you smell that?”

Stiles sighed. “Dude, human, remember?”

“Sorry, yeah,” Scott replied. “No, but I smell something weird. Like bad weird.”

“Where’s it coming from?”

Scott stood and moved over to the window. He sniffed around for a moment and then pulled the cord for the blinds. Outside the window, hanging from a nail hammered into the frame, was what looked like a small cloth bag.

“I’m guessing that’s not a Christmas decoration.”

“What the hell is it?” Stiles asked. “Here, let’s open the window and take it down.”

They did, and once Stiles was holding it in his hands he could see that yes, it was definitely a small bag. Closed with a drawstring he probably shouldn’t open, the material was coarse against his fingers and was marked on one side with an eight-pointed star. It smelled kind of earthy, like a new age incense shop.

It was also totally evil, if the bad vibes coming off the thing were to be believed.

“So, what do you think it is?” asked Scott.

“Nothing good,” said Stiles. He took out his phone to text Derek. “Come on. You drive.”

Derek was waiting for them on the porch when they pulled up. Stiles carefully climbed out of the passenger side with the charm wrapped in a sweatshirt (halfway there he’d grabbed one from the backseat, not wanting to hold it any longer) and stopped in front of Derek, opening it with a flourish.

“Voila!”

Derek frowned and inspected the charm, leaning down to sniff it. “Where exactly did you find it?”

“Outside my bedroom window. Scotty here used his handy-dandy wolf claws to cut it down--”

“Wait, you _touched_ it? Seriously?” Derek said incredulously. Scott and Stiles shared a guilty look. “I can’t believe you idiots touched it.”

Stiles frowned. “Alright, listen here sourwolf, no one ever gave me a guide for what to do if an evil charm happens to appear outside my window.”

Derek shook his head. “Yeah well, in the future here’s a good rule of thumb: when in doubt, don’t touch.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Stiles replied dryly.

“Good. Now, come on, get inside. Leave that thing out here on the porch.”

Stiles balled up the sweatshirt and charm and tossed them none too gently into the corner. Once inside, Derek steered them into the kitchen and directed them to put their hands over the sink.

“Here,” he said. He pulled a bottle of salt out of a cupboard and opened the spout, pouring a generous amount into Scott and Stiles’ hands. “Scrub with that for a minute and then wash it off.”

“Uh, not that we don’t appreciate the exfoliation, but why?” Scott asked.

Derek looked at them like they were stupid. “It’s _salt_. It purifies.”

Stiles could feel himself growing more and more irritated at Derek’s brusque manner.

“Hey, you think you could be a little less of a dick? It’s not like joining this pack came with some kind of Vulcan mind meld. There’s a lot of stuff we don’t know.”

Derek’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “I’m going to go reach out to some contacts. Don’t leave the house.”

And with that, he disappeared downstairs. Stiles finished washing his hands and turned to Scott. “That was legit, right? He was being a dick.”

Scott nodded and then with a surreptitious look over his shoulder, he whispered, “Derek just gets a little sensitive sometimes.” He flinched at the loud growl that rumbled up from the basement. “Shit.”

“I got it,” Stiles said. Something told him that Derek was a lot more bark than bite. “Hey, I’m starving. You wanna make something and I’ll go...” Stiles motioned to the stairs.

“Sure.”

Down in the basement, Stiles found Derek sitting at a desk, typing away at a small laptop.

“Hey, so sorry for calling you a dick, but you were kind of being a dick,” said Stiles, belatedly realizing that sorry-not-sorry was probably not the best opener.

But Derek replied, “It’s fine. You were right. You don’t know enough about our world. That’s on me. I should’ve been teaching you all this time.” He pulled his hands off the keyboard, clenching them into fists. “The others, too. I was stupid not to remember that you guys don’t have the same shared history that born wolves do.”

So, he was mad at himself. Alright, Stiles could empathize. “Hey, man, it’s cool. We all make mistakes. Just think of it as a learning experience, you know, make better mistakes next time and all-- whoa, is that Tor? Dude, are you browsing the _dark web_?”

Derek gave him a disparaging look. “We live in an underground world. How else did you think we communicated?”

“I don’t know, I figured you guys were a little more old school. Messenger pigeons. Coded telegrams. I didn’t expect you of all people to have the tech skills to surf the dark net.”

“I’m twenty-three, Stiles. I know how to use a computer.”

“Yeah, but this isn’t posting pictures of your cat on Facebook. This is like next level shit. Like drugs and guns and illegal markets--” he paused, wondering if he was arousing suspicion. “Not that I’d know anything about that.”

“Of course not.” Derek rolled his eyes. “Here, look. This is the supernatural wiki. We can search for some info on your evil charm here.”

“Wow, Beastapedia? Really?” Stiles snorted, pulling up a chair to sit next to Derek. “That is a level of pun even I’m uncomfortable with.”

Derek looked mildly offended. “Puns are the highest form of humor.”

To be honest, Stiles felt the same, but he changed the subject anyway. “So, is this open source? Like anyone can edit?”

Derek nodded. “Sort of. I’m pretty sure it’s mostly updated by wolves and druids. We tend to keep the best records. Maybe the occasional witch or mage, but they don’t really like to share their knowledge.”

“ _Witches_ are real too? Oh man, please tell me they have a real life Hogwarts,” Stiles said, grabbing Derek’s shoulder and staring at him with mock gravity. “I’ve been waiting for them to tell me my owl got lost for seven years now.”

Derek cocked an eyebrow. “It might be time to give up hope.” He glanced at where Stiles’ hand rested and Stiles, suddenly hyperaware that he was holding Derek’s bare shoulder under his fingers, slammed back into his chair.

“Uh, so! Show me what this Beastapedia can do, huh?”

Derek typed something in with a curious glance in Stiles’ direction. He clicked through a few screens and then gestured to the page. “Here, look.”

There, on the screen, was a symbol strikingly similar to the one on the charm.

“What’s it mean?” Stiles leaned in.

“It looks like it’s probably one of two things. Regeneration or chaos.”

“You know, for some reason I doubt that they’re trying to curse me into growing new tissue.”

“It doesn’t necessarily mean that,” Derek said slowly, rubbing his fingers against his stubble. “Regeneration could be something being reborn or reformed.”

Stiles hummed thoughtfully. “That still doesn’t really tell us much.”

“I know.” Derek’s expression soured. “Let me make a call.”

The call turned out to be to Alan Deaton, local vet and supernatural scholar extraordinaire.

“Oh, I’m hardly a scholar,” Deaton demurred, an hour later as they all knelt around Derek’s coffee table. “But as an emissary I have done a fair bit of research, including my own independent studies.”

“Independent studies?” Stiles asked. He watched Deaton turn the charm over in his gloved hands, studying it intently from every angle.

“Yes, I’m a druid,” Deaton said absently.

“Really? That’s so cool! What kind of powers do you have? Can you do magic? Do you have to be a druid to do magic?”

“Stiles.” Derek frowned at him, his face still just as surly as it’d been when Deaton had first arrived.

“Sorry.”

Deaton put down the charm and looked up. “Well, the herbs appear to be hemlock, thyme, bayberry, and Indian hemp.”

“Okay…” Scott said. “And?”

Deaton hummed thoughtfully. “It’s hard to guess the objective. These herbs can be used for any number of things. Hexes, strengthening, restoration spells. And I get the feeling that the caster had mixed intentions.”

“Really? Because I thought for sure that thing felt evil,” Stiles said, shuddering slightly.

“How interesting.” Deaton looked at Stiles curiously. “Why don’t you tell me about some of your symptoms?”

“Symptoms?” Stiles blinked. “What symptoms? I haven’t been sick.”

“It could be subtler than that,” Deaton replied. “Think back to the last few weeks. Has anything changed? Have you had any strong emotions? Dreams?”

“Well yeah, now that you mention it. I’ve been feeling really tired, like I can’t sleep enough. And I’ve been having some dreams too, but I can never remember them.”

Deaton leaned in. “Can you tell me how you’ve felt upon waking up?”

“Nervous, sometimes. Like I’m afraid of being discovered. Other times I feel keyed up, excited.” He hesitated, feeling strangely embarrassed about the next part. “Powerful.”

From the other side of the table, Derek met his eyes in an intense gaze.

“Well, one thing is certain at least,” said Deaton. “I can say with confidence that this is witchcraft.”

Scott brightened slightly. “So, then it was witches who did it?

“It could be practically anyone,” Deaton sighed. “Witchcraft isn’t limited to witches. Druids, mages, and a slew of many other supernatural creatures can all learn it. Even humans.”

Stiles sat up straighter. “Humans?”

Deaton nodded. “Yes, humans of mixed descent. The ones that have supernatural blood in them. Like you, I suspect.”

“I’m sorry, did you say like _me?_ ”

Suddenly on his feet, Derek, who had been quiet for most of the exchange, leveled Deaton with a cool glare. “You haven’t told us much more than what we already knew. If that’s all you have, then I think it’s time for you to leave.”

“Derek!” Stiles chided.

“No, no, he’s right. I should be going,” Deaton acquiesced. Picking up the charm and peeling his gloves off over it, he dropped it into his bag. At the doorway, he paused to look back at Derek, something heavy passing between them. “I hope you’ll reconsider.”

In response, Derek shut the door behind him with more force than Stiles thought necessary.

“What the hell was that about?” Stiles cried. “You know you weren’t raised by _actual_ wolves, right?”

Derek flashed his eyes and growled. “Stay out of things you don’t understand.”

Stiles stood up. “What’s there to understand? He was trying to help us! And didn’t you hear what he said about me? I might be able to learn magic from him!”

“I forbid it.”

Stiles jerked back in shock, but it soon gave way to anger. “I’m sorry, you _forbid_ it? I’d like to see you try and stop me.” He picked up his backpack and tried to shoulder past Derek to get to the front door, but the world was a quick blur as Derek grabbed him and pinned him against the wall.

“ _I forbid it_ ,” Derek snarled, pressing the length of his forearm into Stiles’ sternum. There was something in the timbre of his voice this time that pulled at Stiles’ guts, twisting them into knots. Something that had him dropping his gaze and tilting his chin to the side without thought. “I am the alpha of this pack. If I say you can’t learn magic from Deaton, then _you can’t learn magic from Deaton_. Do you understand me?”

It was like all the fight had suddenly been sucked out of him. “Yes,” mumbled Stiles. “I understand.”

“Good,” said Derek, releasing him. “Now call your dad. You’re sleeping here tonight. You too, Scott.”

Derek met both of their eyes briefly before heading upstairs. As soon as he left the room a pressure, one Stiles didn’t realize he’d been feeling, suddenly eased.

“What the fuck was that?” he hissed at Scott.

“He used his alpha voice,” Scott answered with a cringe. “It forces submission.”

“Yeah, I fucking noticed that, buddy!” Stiles flopped down on the couch. “Is there anything else about this pack thing that you’ve forgotten to mention? Can Derek just turn us into zombie slaves and order us to do his bidding whenever he feels like it?”

“He wouldn’t do that,” said Scott, frowning. When he caught the look in Stiles’ eyes he hastened to add, “He can’t, alright! He can’t. Chill.”

Stiles huffed and fell onto his back. He dug for the phone in his pocket to call his dad and as he stared at the ceiling, listening to it ring, he determined that he was mostly upset because Derek’s alpha voice had taken away his right to be heard.

It definitely had nothing to do with the way it made his knees want to buckle and hit the floor, or the irrational wave of heat that had rushed through his body.

Later that night, while Scott snored next to him on the living room floor, Stiles discovered a new set of marks. In the center of each palm were four red scabs, presumably from his soul mate angrily digging his claws into his own hands. He ran his fingertips over them, his mood still dark and irritable.

Wherever his soul mate was, Stiles completely understood the feeling.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The discovery of the mysterious and possibly evil charm brought with it a freight train of friction.  
  
Derek was very quick and emphatic in expressing his opinion that Stiles was no longer safe sleeping in his own house. Stiles was also quick and just as emphatic in expressing his own opinion that Derek was a lunatic and _there was no way in hell he was going to move out of his dad’s house._

They eventually reached a compromise. The wolves would develop a schedule for checking up on him at night. Scott got off easiest in Stiles’ view, since he usually crashed at Stiles’ house once or twice a week anyway. The others, in the interest of keeping eyebrows from rising, would have to creep on him from afar, camping out on the neighbor’s roof.

At least, that’s what Stiles thought would happen anyway.

“Derek, what are you _doing_?” Stiles hissed as he watched the werewolf slide his window open and climb into the bedroom.

“I’m not sleeping outside. It’s December,” Derek snorted.

“You’re a werewolf! You won’t feel it. And anyway, my dad--”

“Will be leaving for the midnight shift soon,” Derek interrupted.

Stiles glared, resisting the urge to grind his teeth together. “And if he comes to check on me before he goes?”

“I’ll hear him and have more than enough time to hide in the closet,” Derek said. “It makes more sense for me to sleep in here. Outside, I’d have to worry about dozing off and missing something, but here I’ll wake up if anything happens.” Derek looked at Stiles with an infuriating calm. “Don’t you agree that’s smarter?”

“Whatever,” Stiles grumbled. He hadn’t yet forgiven Derek for throwing his alpha weight around and forbidding Stiles to learn magic. He picked up a blanket and pillow and tossed them on the floor. “Sleep by the window.”

Derek wordlessly made up a pallet for himself. Stiles lay back down in bed, pulling his covers up and wiggling his toes out. He closed his eyes and tried to will himself to sleep, but his mind continued to whir and the banked frustration he felt with Derek would not cool. After rolling back and forth a few times, he sighed and looked over at the werewolf on his floor. Derek’s eyes were closed, the moonlight pouring in from the window somehow softening his features.

“Hey, Derek?”

Derek hummed an acknowledgment.

“Why can’t I learn magic from Deaton?”

Derek sighed and opened his eyes. “Because I trust Alan Deaton about as far as I can throw him.”

“Oh,” said Stiles. “Can I ask why?”

Derek stared at the ceiling long enough that Stiles didn’t think he was going to answer. When he did, it was with a voice that came from far away. “It’s complicated.”

“We don’t have to talk about it.” He suspected it had something to do with Derek’s family and Stiles knew from experience that forcing someone to exorcise their demons rarely went well. “Can I ask you something else though?”

“What?”

“Do werewolves get soul marks?” Stiles asked, fingering his newest bruise.

“Not like humans do. Ours only last for a few hours at most.”

“Oh.” Stiles’ marks generally lasted two or three days. “And is it normal for werewolves to have human soul mates?”

Derek rolled over onto his side. “ _Normal_ is pretty subjective in our world. But it’s not uncommon. My dad was human.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” said Derek. “He was a great storyteller. When we were kids, he always told us these crazy stories for how he got his bumps and bruises. Usually involving vampires or trolls.” Derek’s eyes crinkled as he smiled softly. “It wasn’t until I was older that I realized they were all soul marks.”

“That’s nice. He sounds like someone I would’ve liked to know.”

Derek looked at him, face softening. “Yeah, I think you would have.”

Stiles soaked in the quiet for a moment. “My mom used to tell that when you love someone, their joy is your joy,” he began softly. “But their pain is your pain, too. She said that soul marks were a way of reminding us to be good to our mates. That sometimes, even though _you_ couldn’t feel it, they could still be hurting from something. So we should always try to be patient and apologize if we poked their bruises.” Stiles laughed quietly. “It took me a while to understand that she didn’t mean that literally.”

The room was still, both its occupants warmed by old memories.

Derek cleared his throat. “Hey. Do you really want to learn magic?”

“Yeah. I really do.”

“Alright,” said Derek. “I think I know someone who could test you. Maybe train you too, assuming you can learn.”

Stiles propped his head up with his hand. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. The pack could use a magic user, to be honest. And I’d feel better if you had more ways to defend yourself.”

“Derek, man. _Thank you._ ”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Derek’s mouth twitched in amusement. “You could still be a Squib.”

Stiles huffed a laugh, feeling a grin breaking on his face. “You’re something else, Derek Hale.”

Derek scoffed softly, lying back down and Stiles followed suit.

“Hey, Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you let me scent mark you?”

Stiles rolled over. “What’s that now?”

“I want to touch you to mark you with my scent,” Derek explained. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed it, but the other wolves and I have been marking you since you entered the pack. I haven’t touched you in over a week now and--” Derek paused to sit up. He seemed to consider his next words carefully as his eyes bored into Stiles’ own. “It might not sound logical, but it makes me anxious that you don’t smell like me. Like pack.”

Stiles sat up, mirroring Derek’s position. “I guess I just figured that was some kind of touch thing. Like, werewolves are tactile creatures, right?”

“We are,” said Derek slowly. Stiles could see the tension in the lines of Derek’s body now, the desire to touch that he was holding back. Derek made a motion with his hands. “Can I? I won’t feel like you’re protected until I mark you.”

“Yeah, of course.” He moved over and made some room for Derek on the bed. Derek didn’t need to be told twice; he quickly sunk down next to Stiles, close enough for him to feel the wolf’s body heat through his threadbare pajama pants.

“How do you want me?” Stiles asked, catching the innuendo too late and forcing out an awkward laugh. He tucked his legs under him so that he and Derek were knee to knee.

“This is fine,” answered Derek. “Just, here, like this--” Derek guided Stiles to rest his head on his shoulder and then slid his hand over the curve of Stiles’ neck. His hand was hot, like a brand, sending tingles throughout Stiles’ body, and Stiles understood immediately what it was to be marked.

“Okay?” Derek asked.

“Yeah,” said Stiles. He put a hand on Derek’s knee to stabilize his body. “How long?”

“Just a few minutes,” said Derek, already sounding softer, more relieved. This close, Stiles could catch Derek’s scent easily: clean and earthy, like the Preserve after a thunderstorm. It felt like a blanket being wrapped around him and maybe it was stupid, but he _was_ beginning to feel safer.  
  
Derek’s hand started to move over Stiles’ shoulder and neck, his thumb tracing the bottom of Stiles’ hairline as the tips of his fingers brushed against Stiles’ throat. It was weirdly nice, Stiles thought, feeling something within him loosen. He was absorbing Derek’s touch like he’d been starved for it. Maybe there was more magic in this pack thing then he’d first considered.

Stiles’ body was growing heavier with content, a syrupy slowness coursing through him. He was getting sleepier, but there was something more Stiles wanted. His skin was starting to ache under Derek’s fingers, like Derek was teasing a hunger out of him, and too late he recognized that it was because he was getting turned on.

His heart fluttered in his chest just as he heard Derek stutter on his next inhale. _He can smell it,_ Stiles realized with dread. What were the norms for this situation? Was he a terrible pervert? Oh god, what if Derek was disgusted by him?

But Derek simply pulled his hand away after one more gentle caress. “Thanks,” he said simply, and then went back to his blanket under the window.

“No problem,” Stiles replied, more glib than he felt. “Night, Derek.”

Stiles spent way too long after Derek’s response staring at his ceiling and wondering if there was a spell out there that stopped you from reliving embarrassing memories.

-

“Noshiko. How are you?”

Noshiko Yukimura may have been a 900-year-old kitsune, but she was still a stone-cold fox in Stiles’ opinion. She stepped through the foyer and into the den, trailed by a shy teenage girl.

“I’m well, thanks. And you, Derek Hale? You must have something good on Alpha Ito to get her collecting favors from me,” said Noshiko with a sly grin.

Derek’s eyes danced with amusement. “And old debt that she’s glad to see settled I imagine.”

Wait, Derek had called in a favor for him? A warm appreciation bloomed in Stiles’ chest.

“This is my daughter Kira,” introduced Noshiko. Derek, Stiles, and Scott made their own introductions, Scott seeming a little slack-jawed after shaking Kira’s hand. “So, you’re the neophyte huh?” Noshiko said to Stiles.

“Yeah. Uh, maybe, I guess.”

“Don’t worry. That’s what we’re here to find out.” She dropped to sit on the floor, Kira kneeling next to her, and gestured for Stiles to join them. “Kira is still learning.”

“I’ve never seen Mom test for powers before,” Kira said shyly, her eyes flicking to Stiles’ and then Scott’s.

“How does it work?” Stiles asked.

“First, we’ll meditate to clear our minds. Then I’ll channel some of my energy into you to see if you can use it to manifest your own power.”

“What will it manifest as?” asked Scott.

“We shall see.” Noshiko’s eyes twinkled. She took Stiles’ hands in her own. “Close your eyes. Focus on the breath. Allow your thoughts to slide across your mind.”

Stiles did as she said, closing his eyes. Noshiko’s hands radiated warmth. He wondered if that was a kitsune thing, or maybe just a supernatural thing. Derek and Scott were always warm too.

“Don’t chase the thoughts,” Noshiko advised. “Let them spill away like water from a bucket. Scoop them out until your mind is empty.”

Stiles took a deep breath in and blew it out, nodding to himself. Like a bucket. Okay. Breathe in. Breathe out. Dump the thoughts out of his mind. Breathe in. Out. Scoop away thoughts. In. Out.   
  
In.

Out.

His skin was beginning to tingle, like his feet were going numb under him. He continued to breathe deeply, ignoring the crawling feeling that crept up his legs. In. Out.

In.

Out.

“Do you feel it?”

He gasped as the feeling shot across his whole body all at once, a hot, buzzing sensation sitting just below the surface of his skin.

“Yeah, I feel it.”

“Good. Feel my hands under yours? I want you to try to focus the feeling here, into the palm of your hands. Can you do that for me, Stiles?”

Could he?

“I can try,” he answered. The buzzing hummed within him. Truthfully, it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. It felt like something living. Like something... alive. Stiles imagined the feeling moving, being drawn down through his body and coalescing into his hands. He heard a gasp.

“Great, Stiles. Now I want you to push it up, out toward the ceiling. As it flows out of you, think about the power of nature. Lightning, wildfire, typhoons-- whatever feels natural.”

He thought of those things, but then his mind spun deeper and deeper into galaxies colliding, supernovas, electrons vibrating, appearing and disappearing, the universe stretching on and on, until suddenly he felt a rush of power explode from his hands.

Stiles opened his eyes, expecting to catch a glimpse, but all he saw was darkness until Noshiko pulled her hands away, bringing light flooding back into the room. When her face came into focus, he was surprised to see her looking a little taken aback.

“What? Am I the Chosen One?”

“You’re definitely a wizard, ‘Arry,” Scott cracked, and Stiles shot him an appreciative smile. He risked a glance at Derek who was perched against the wall, face impassive.

“Not a wizard, I think,” Noshiko said. “But you can do magic, that’s for certain.” She held up a hand, palm up, and a small fire leapt to life. “This is my essential element. For kitsune, we call it foxfire, though it need not be fire. Kira,” she prompted. Kira opened her hand and after a few seconds of concentration, a ball of electricity crackled in her palm. “Kira’s essential element is thunder.”

“So, what’s mine?”

Noshiko looked at him curiously. “What were you thinking of when you called your power?”

Stiles shrugged. “Just space stuff. Like energy from stars and interacting galaxies and all that jazz.”

“Wow, you’re a nerd,” Kira said, quickly flushing when the three pack members turned to look at her. “I meant that in the best possible way, of course.”

“I’ve never met someone with this essential element,” Noshiko began slowly. “But I think yours might be _darkness_.”

“Whoa, really?” Stiles blinked. “Like dark energy? That’s so cool!”

“I’m afraid without much experience, I can’t help you train it,” she apologized. “We kitsune are magic creatures, but we are not primarily magic users. You’d be better off seeking a mentor with more knowledge. Perhaps a witch or a druid?”

Derek sighed heavily. “We’ll look into it. Thanks, Noshiko.”

“My pleasure. I regret that I couldn’t be of more help.”

Derek closed the door behind them softly as Noshiko and her daughter left. He rubbed a hand over his face and then turned to look at Stiles. “You know, I was almost hoping that you wouldn’t have powers.”

Stiles grinned cheekily. “But I do. And they’re rare powers too, because I’m a special snowflake.” He wiggled his fingers, and then gasped in realization. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

Derek looked wary. “What?”

“You guys are gonna have to start calling me _Darth Stiles_ now.” He held out a hand in Force Choke position, but Derek just rolled his eyes. “Aw, party pooper.” Stiles turned to Scott, who had no problem hamming it up.

“Please, D-darth Stiles,” he choked, falling to his knees and clutching his throat. “Mer-mercy!”

“You two are ridiculous,” Derek said.

They continued on for a little bit to prove the point. Derek shook his head as he left the room.

“So hey, that Kira girl…” Scott segued.

“Yeah, what about her?” Stiles prompted.

Scott sighed wistfully.

“She was _beautiful_.”

-

Stiles wasn’t sure, but it seemed like he blinked and two weeks had gone by. Derek was looking into finding him a mentor, school was almost out for winter break, and the nightly rotating wolfy surveillance was becoming freakishly routine.

Also, Lydia Martin was currently snapping her fingers in front of his eyes.

He gave his head a little shake to clear it. “What, sorry?”

Lydia pursed her lips, eyes narrowing. “I _asked_ if you wanted to compare notes for AP Calc.”

“Oh! Uh yeah, sure.” He really did need to study. It wouldn’t be long before the whole preoccupation with the mystery enemy thing caused his grades to tank and finals were in just a few days. “Why me, though?” he asked curiously.

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Obviously because you’re the only one giving me a run for valedictorian.”

“How’d you figure that?”

“I paid Danny Mahealani to help me check the class rankings,” she replied guilelessly.

“That’s... unethical,” he said with a grin. “Alright, when do you want to study?”

“I’ll meet you at your house tomorrow after school,” said Lydia. She flicked her strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder and turned to leave. “Don’t be late.”

Stiles had to admire her forthrightness. “See you tomorrow then.”

He watched her walk away curiously. There was something about her these days that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“Hey, Stiles.” A warm hand landed on his shoulder and quickly brushed over the side of his neck, rousing the warm feeling he was beginning to think of as ‘pack fuzzies.’

“Hey, Isaac.” He shouldered his backpack and turned to face his packmate. “You on babysitting duty tonight?”

“Yup,” he replied with a grin. It quickly melted away and was replaced with sad, doe eyes. “You know, it’s supposed to be really cold.”

Stiles bit back a smile. “I guess you should wear your _fur coat_ then,” he teased.

Isaac whined. “C’mon, Stiles.”

“Alright, fine,” he relented, grinning. “I’ll make you some room on the floor.”

“How about you join me and we can have pack cuddles?”

“Don’t push it.”

-

“Alright, that’s it.” Stiles shut his book and rolled to his feet. He tossed his head from side to side, working out some of the neck strain that’d crept in while studying. “I need some brain food. You down for some pizza rolls?”

Lydia wrinkled her nose. “Pass. My brain does better on organics.”

“Suit yourself,” he shrugged. “I’ll be right back.”

In the kitchen, while waiting for the microwave to do its duty, he managed to find a few oranges for Lydia. Even better, he carried it all back to his room in one trip, dropping only one solitary pizza roll on the floor. And best of all, it was in his mouth within five seconds, so he was pretty sure that counted as a win.

“Hot, hooot,” he breathed around the steaming morsel. “Here, I found you some fruit.”

Lydia looked up from her textbook. “Thanks,” she said, her mouth relaxing into an almost smile.

He passed her the plate of oranges and popped another pizza roll into his mouth. Stiles watched as she peeled one delicately, his gaze lingering over her forearms and the dark bruise that bloomed inside of one.

“Hey,” he said. “You meet your soul mate yet?”

Lydia gave him a look. “Stiles, only ten percent of the population meets their soul mate before eighteen.”

“I’m eighteen,” Stiles pouted.

Lydia continued giving him the look, raising an eyebrow.

“I got held back in kindergarten,” he muttered.

She hummed noncommittally, enjoying her orange. Once finished, she licked the juice from her thumb and asked him, “Have you found yours then?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I think I’ve narrowed it down.”

“That’s good. You seem like you’re getting less marks though.”

“Really?” Was he? If that was true he hadn’t noticed. “How about you? Do you get many marks?”

Lydia frowned. “I used to,” she said slowly. She turned away, chewing on her bottom lip. “I stopped getting them about two years ago. I haven’t had any since then.”

“There could be lots of reasons for that,” Stiles hurried to say.

“Yeah,” she breathed loudly out of her nose and smirked humorlessly. “Like death.”

“It doesn’t mean they’re dead, Lydia,” he said softly.

“Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway,” she said. “Statistically, soul matches aren’t guaranteed to be happier, you know. After all, my parents were soul mates and it didn’t stop them from getting divorced.”

Stiles couldn’t think of anything to say to that.

“Let’s just get back to studying,” she huffed.

They did, spending the rest of the evening pouring over calculations and formulas. And when Lydia left and Stiles finally got to bed it was to dreams of pain and darkness, of mates dying and never showing, which heaved and rolled through his mind all night.

-

Winter break commenced without fanfare. Stiles aced his finals and spent the first few days of vacation on autopilot: blowing up starships on his computer, subsisting on late-night microwaveable meals, and blearily rising late into the afternoon. But no matter how much sleep he managed to surplus, he couldn’t shake the feeling of feeling _off_ somehow. It was like there was an itch steadily growing under his skin that he just couldn’t scratch.

“Maybe you need a release,” Scott suggested. “We could teach you how to fight?”

Stiles crossed his legs and collapsed in the middle of the living room, shaking his head. “I don’t think that’s it.”

“Maybe you need a different type of release,” Erica said, her lips curling into a smirk.

“What, you offering?” Stiles leered. Boyd snorted and tugged her more fully into his lap.

“You wish,” she laughed, leaning back into Boyd’s embrace. “Seriously though, you need to get some. You want us to take you down to Jungle tonight?”

Stiles chewed on his lip, considering. Honestly, he felt like the root of the feeling had something to do with his latent magical powers, but with no mentor in sight, he didn’t really have the means to explore that. Maybe sex _would_ be a good outlet. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

Erica clapped her hands and clenched her fists in triumph. “Yes! I have the perfect outfit in mind.”

“For me or for you?”

She only smirked in response.

And that’s how after dinner, Stiles found himself being manhandled into what had to be Erica’s tightest pair of black leather pants.

“These are not going to fit.”

“Yes, they will. They stretch.”

“ _Erica,_ ” he complained.

“Pull up your diaper, you big baby. I’ve had a zero fail rate wearing these,” she bragged. “Do you want your dreams to smash smashed?”

“No,” he grumbled.

“Then listen to Mama Erica.”

“I’m older than you, you know that right?”

“Your _spiritual_ mama. Your sexy pack mama.”

Stiles pulled a face. “Please don’t ever say that again.”

When she was done Stiles looked like he’d been poured into his outfit, but he could begrudgingly admit that alright, he looked pretty damn good. Erica was demure in accepting his thanks of course, so Stiles fled down to the living room to wait for the wolves to trickle in, away from her intolerably smug gaze.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come, Derek?” he heard Erica ask as she came down the stairs. She was the last one to be ready and Stiles rose to his feet, eager to leave.

“No, I--” Derek’s voice broke off as he entered the room and his gaze landed on the group of them gathered together. Something seemed to flicker across his face for a moment. “Actually, yeah,” Derek said slowly, a banked heat rising in his eyes as they met Stiles’ own. Stiles suppressed a shiver. “I think I will come.”

The wait to get into Jungle wasn’t too bad for a Saturday and in a stroke of luck, Boyd happened to know the bouncer checking IDs at the door. Stiles had nervously fingered the orange band around his wrist when he’d ordered his first beer, but it’d seemed to satisfy the bartender and now he was two beers in and working on a third, his grip loose around the bottle’s neck as he undulated to the beat. Erica had peeled away from him a few songs ago and he cast his eyes through the crowd, searching for a new partner. The alcohol sent a relaxing warmth through his body and he was feeling at ease for the first time in weeks.  
  
A pair of hands landed on his hips from behind and he jumped before craning back to look. The owner of the hands was cute enough, blond and tall with a dimpled smile.

“You got some nice moves,” the guy yelled into his ear. Stiles smirked and turned around to face him.

“You should see me once I’m warmed up,” he replied with a wink. He leaned in and slid his thumbs into the dude’s belt loops, hitching their hips closer together. Stiles let the music carry their movements, feeling the buzz of arousal building. This was _good_ , he thought, grinding against Dimples’ leg. Probably just another song or two, then he could drag the pair of them off to the bathroom to burn off some tension.

The music changed and Stiles closed his eyes, his nerves alight with growing anticipation, as electro faded into hard rock.

“Mind if I cut in?”

His eyes snapped open. Derek stood next to them, eyes focused on his dance partner and a predatory smile on his lips. Stiles let go of Dimples reflexively, feeling a ripple of confusion as he wondered why Derek wanted to steal his dance partner. But then Derek surprised him by flashing his teeth at Dimples, taking Stiles’ own hips in his big hands, and moving the two them away in an effortless slide.

“Derek,” said Stiles. “What are you doing?”

“Dancing,” he replied simply. Stiles felt the pressure on his hips increase, encouraging him to move to the beat of the song.

“Noted.” Stiles swallowed. “I meant, why are you dancing with me?”

One of Derek’s hands slid a fraction of the way under his shirt. “Do you want to stop?” he asked, thumb languidly stroking over Stiles’ hipbone and leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

A violent rebellion twisted in his belly. “ _No_ ,” he whispered fiercely.

“Then just enjoy it,” said Derek.

Stiles nodded dumbly and tried to do just that. Derek was far from the awkward dancer Stiles might’ve thought, if he’d had time to give it any, moving them with a coiled grace that belied his supernatural power. He wound an arm around Stiles, splaying his hot fingers against the small of Stiles’ back and urging him closer. Every point of contact between them burned. If Derek was an inferno, eyes dark like smoldering coals, then Stiles was a dry field, thirsty and helpless to resist the coming blaze.

The drumbeat of the song pounded through his body as Stiles skimmed his hands over Derek’s arms and chest. This close he was more aware of Derek’s carefully reined strength than ever. It was terrifyingly arousing to Stiles to know that Derek could take whatever he wanted, could hurt him, and Stiles could do nothing but trust. Was this because Derek was a werewolf? An alpha? _His_ alpha?

Stiles finally noticed that Derek was slowly steering them away from the lights and toward the shadows at the edge of the dance floor. His heart thudded, his cock hardening in his ridiculously tight pants. Derek gave him a knowing smirk and Stiles felt a flush of embarrassment, his arousal only building more. Fucking fuck. He couldn’t remember ever wanting someone this bad.

Derek turned their bodies so that Stiles felt the brush of the wall behind him now. His pulse jumped in his throat. He was cornered now, prey to predator, and harder than he’d ever been in his life.

Stiles’ tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Derek,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“You’re a really good dancer.”

Derek chuckled, too soft for Stiles to hear, but felt through the hand he rested on Derek’s chest. “Thanks.”

They moved for a few more beats, the rhythm of one song flowing seamlessly into the next.

“What is this, Derek?” Stiles asked. “What are we doing?”

“We’re dancing,” he replied plainly. Infuriatingly. Stiles huffed.

“Is that all? Because I don’t know about you, but this is--for me, I’m--” Stiles’ throat closed around the words battling to escape, his face reddening. What was he even trying to say?

Derek leaned in, closing the gap between them. His stubble dragged against the side of Stiles’ face with a rough sweetness; his breath was hot on Stiles’ ear as he said, “That’s all. Unless you want more.”

_Jesus._ Was this real life? Stiles sucked in a sharp breath and slipped his arms over Derek’s shoulders, trailing his shaky fingers through the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

“What’s more?” he dared to ask.

Derek shot him a feral grin and pulled their hips together, his grin going wider when Stiles let out a small gasp at the feel of Derek’s clothed erection against his. “More is me peeling you out of those obscene fucking pants you're wearing and making you come so hard you cry.”

Was it possible to die of arousal? He was pretty sure all the blood in his brain had gone south. “Oh,” he said stupidly.

“Listen, Stiles,” Derek pulled back a fraction, his smile fading as he injected a sense of gravity into the conversation. “It’s your choice. If you want to leave this at dancing, that’s just fine. But if you want me to pull you off this dance floor, if you want me to push you up against a wall and take you apart?” Derek’s eyes flickered. “Just say the word.”

“Yes,” Stiles heard himself say before Derek had even finished. “Yes, yes to that. The second thing. Let’s do that.”

“Alright then,” drawled Derek. But he made no move to take them away.

“You meant now, right?”

“In a moment,” Derek hummed. His lips quirked in a sly smile. “I like this song.”

The music had changed again; this time a slow and sultry number. Derek’s thigh slid between his legs and he cupped his hands over Stiles’ ass, encouraging Stiles to grind against him. Stiles did, panting and pliant under Derek’s touch. The friction was surprisingly _good_ , Stiles discovered, heat coiling in his stomach. He bit his lip and rested his forehead against Derek’s chest.

“Derek,” he tried to say, but it came out as an embarrassing whine. “ _Derek._ ”

“The things I want to do to you,” Derek growled softly.

Stiles was dangerously close to orgasm, he realized with a shock. “Derek, _please_. You’re gonna make me come in my pants,” he whispered, slightly humiliated that this was all it took.

But Derek seemed to like hearing that. “Yeah? This all you need, baby?” he said, his voice rough in Stiles’ ear. “You gonna come just from rubbing off on me?”

“No,” protested Stiles. A flash of distress ran through him at the thought of coming right there on the dance floor. “Derek, I don’t want-- _please_.”

Derek pulled back immediately. “Shh, okay baby. It’s okay. C’mon.” He took Stiles’ hand and they wound their way through the crowd and to the bathrooms. Derek led Stiles into a stall and slid the lock home behind them.

Under the dim fluorescent lighting, Stiles felt his courage leave him in a rush. He fisted his hands in Derek’s shirt to hide their probable shakiness and turned his face up. Derek was staring down at him, pupils so large that his eyes seemed black.

“The way you _smell_ ,” Derek groaned, burying his face into the expanse of skin where Stiles’ neck met shoulder. “If you only knew, fuck.”

Stiles shivered at the rasp of Derek’s stubble. Suddenly, Derek pulled away and kneeled before him. Stiles’ mouth went dry.

“Oh my god,” Stiles moaned. The sight of Derek on his knees, inches away from his cock? Forget top ten, this was hands down the single most erotic moment of his life and Derek hadn’t even touched his dick yet. Erica was going to get the best of thank you cards. Fuck it, he would send her _flowers_ for this.

Derek’s hands came up and pinned his wrists to the wall next to his hips and Stiles made a low noise in his throat. He watched Derek’s head move closer to the bulge in the crotch of his pants with a wary disbelief, almost afraid to believe that _this was really happening_. Derek Hale was going to suck his dick.

With a maneuver so quick he missed it, Derek had the front of his pants open and was pushing up his shirt with one hand. He kept an elbow on Stiles' forearm to hold it in place; his other hand still holding Stiles' wrist tightly. Derek laid an open-mouthed kiss on Stiles' belly and Stiles shivered with arousal. Then, Derek pulled back, studying his lower half, before his eyes grew wide and darted up to Stiles' own. The door to the bathroom swung open and they both froze behind the door of their stall. Stiles’ eyes remained on Derek’s while their visitor used the facilities, the two of them silent as the grave. Stiles felt Derek’s grip on his wrist relax abruptly while the unknown man washed his hands. And when the door had shut, Derek released him completely and fluidly got to his feet.

“What is it?” Stiles asked.

“This is a mistake,” replied Derek, and Stiles’ heart plummeted. “We shouldn’t do this."

And with that Derek quickly unlatched the door and walked away, leaving Stiles standing in a bathroom stall, hard in his open pants, and wondering how exactly it'd suddenly gone ass up.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles woke with the hangover from hell. He doubted it had much to do with the beers he’d drank at the club. It was more likely credited to the fifth of bourbon he’d pilfered from his dad’s stash before bed and the asshole alpha werewolf that’d drove him to it.

Stiles looked down at the half empty bottle with bleary eyes. Derek had left the club right after their incident in the bathroom and Stiles hadn’t been far behind him. He remembered Scott’s look of surprise when Stiles had asked to be taken home and the pervasive silence they’d sat through the whole way back. He heaved a heavy sigh and picked up the whiskey, tucking it under his arm and he heading down to the kitchen.

“Morning,” his dad greeted him. “Want some pancakes?”

“Blergh,” Stiles answered succinctly. He placed the bottle down with a dull thud.

His dad raised an eyebrow. “So, no to the pancakes then. Is there an explanation coming?”

Stiles rested his head on the table, hoping to alleviate the pounding. “Bad night.”

The sheriff sighed. “My parental senses are telling me I should punish this, but I feel like the natural consequences you’re currently suffering oughta be punishment enough.”

“Just put me out of my misery,” whimpered Stiles, shutting his eyes.

His dad tsked and Stiles heard the scrape of the bottle being dragged up off the table and put back in its proper place. There were some slams of cabinet doors—probably not slams, but they sure sounded like it right now—and the running of the sink, and then his dad set something down near his head with a soft thump. Stiles cracked his eyes open enough to make out two painkillers and a glass of water.

“Thanks,” he croaked.

“Go take a long shower,” his dad suggested as Stiles swallowed the pills down. “You’ll feel better after you do.”

Stiles did. And after forty minutes of pressing his forehead to the cool tile while the hot water beat down around him, hey, he almost felt like an actual human again. He gingerly toweled off and returned to his room, catching sight of the notification light blinking on his phone. Stiles swiped his thumb over the screen to find a message from Scott, roughly time stamped around last night’s bourbon bender. It read simply: _You okay?_

He let out a long sigh and fiddled with the phone for a moment.

 _Not really._ Stiles wrote, deciding honesty was the best policy. He checked the time. _Lunch?_

He set the phone down and stretched out on the bed. Even his sheets seemed to carry the soft scent of whiskey and regret. As he turned into his pillow, he willed it to imbue him with the strength he’d need to take on the day.

His phone chirped. _New burger place by the library in 30?_

Stiles sat up slowly, not wanting to ruin the tenuous wellbeing the shower had given him. _Done,_ he texted.

He wasn’t exactly brimming with strength and calm, but he had enough to meet Scott at least.

-

“This burger sucks.”

Scott shrugged, eyes squinting in the midday sun. “Tastes fine to me, bro. I think maybe you killed some taste buds last night.”

Stiles took another cautious bite, frowning at the taste. He gave up and set the burger on Scott’s tray. “Wish I could’ve killed some memories,” he muttered.

Scott shot him a sympathetic look. “You ready to tell me what happened?”

“What’s to tell? Nothing happened.”

“It didn’t seem like nothing.”

He pushed a fry through some ketchup, making no move to eat it. “It was on Derek’s end, I guess.”

Scott frowned. “That’s not really his style.”

“Then why would he dick me around?” Stiles said, crumpling his wrapper. “He swoops in and dances with me, alludes to taking it further, and then has a sudden change of heart and leaves me standing in the bathroom like an idiot with his pants around his ankles? I don’t know what else his motive could’ve been.”

Scott shook his head. “I just can’t believe Derek would do that. That sounds so unlike him.”

Stiles unfurled the burger wrapper and began tearing it into pieces. “Well he did,” he answered hotly, letting his irritation leak in.

“Hey, no, I’m sorry,” Scott said. “I believe you. I didn’t mean to sound like I didn’t, it’s just really weird behavior from Derek. He’s normally so... meticulous.”

“Look at you, Word-A-Day.”

Scott grinned a little. “I try.”

The wind picked up for a moment, blowing a chill down Stiles’ jacket. He shivered, rethinking their decision to sit outside in Beacon Hills’ sad excuse for December weather.

“Listen,” Scott began. “I’m not making excuses or anything. That was totally shitty of him, one-hundred percent. But do you want my werewolf opinion?” He waited for Stiles to nod. “I think that alphas have a harder time detaching and Derek realized that too late. So he caught himself and decided it’d be better to pull away now instead of getting in too deep. Does that make sense?”

Stiles frowned. “I just don’t get why he’d make it out to be something that big. It didn’t need to _be_ anything, you know?”

“Maybe for you,” said Scott. “You have to remember, you’re some werewolf’s soul mate. One day you’ll have to leave this pack to join theirs. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re not the best sharers,” he admitted with a wry grin. “You might go so far as to call us possessive.”

Stiles thought about the weird scent-marking thing and Derek using his alpha voice to get his way. He tried not to linger over Derek’s pushing him against a wall and making himself Stiles’ whole world.

“Yeah, I can see that,” he replied dryly. Scott laughed. “So, I guess my only options now are to either leave the pack or suffer in shame forever?”

“Okay,” Scott snorted. “That first one isn’t even an option. And don’t sweat it, really, there’ve been _far_ worse pack scandals.”

“Humor me,” he implored. “And wait, what do you mean not an option? Is this a blood in, blood out kind of thing?”

“Something like that,” replied Scott around a mouthful of food.

“I was right, it _is_ a gang. My dad will be so disappointed in me.” He ducked a fry. “But really, dish on some pack scandals so I can feel better about my sad self already.”

Scott obliged by launching into a sordid tale about Boyd, Erica, and trio of werecoyotes that left the two of them rolling with laughter by the end and Stiles definitively feeling better. He wiped a tear out of the corner of his eye with a happy sigh.

“Alright, mission accomplished,” he said. “I officially feel way less bothered by alpha wolf bullshit.”

“Good.” Scott gave him a hug and a lingering rub over the neck. “Where are you off to now?”

“Oh, you know. Starting on that Christmas shopping,” he replied breezily.

Scott made a small noise of disbelief. “Only you would start shopping two days before Christmas.”

“Some consider themselves kings of procrastination, but I was born in it, molded by it. Those frantic minutes betray them, because they belong to _me_ ,” rasped Stiles.

Scott gave him a playful shove and one final goodbye hug before leaving Stiles to battle the last-minute crowds alone. He did pretty well for himself, he thought, nabbing gifts for everyone on his list in under two hours. A sweet little old lady from the Rotary Club talked him into dropping off his gifts to be wrapped, so Stiles ambled over to the nearby coffee shop while he waited.

He stomach had started to feel better, so he ordered a peppermint mocha and took it to a seat at an empty table.

“Lydia!” the barista called out. Stiles turned to see a curtain of familiar copper hair grabbing a latte and he stood up to catch her.

“Hey,” he said, putting his hand on her arm to get her attention. Lydia startled so badly that Stiles took a step back.

“Oh. Hey, Stiles,” she said unevenly, but then appeared to collect herself swiftly. “Eleventh hour holiday shopping, I presume?”

Stiles smiled softly. “That’s right. How about you?”

“Just needed to get out of the house,” she said. “Mind if I sit with you?”

“Sure, by all means.” He waved her over to his table.

Sitting face-to-face, Stiles frowned when he noticed the smudges of purple under Lydia’s eyes that even the best concealer couldn’t hide. “Hey, you been feeling sick lately?”

Lydia shook her head. “Not exactly. Just awful insomnia. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in god knows how long.”

Stiles hummed sympathetically. “I feel you there. I’ve been having these dreams. I usually can’t fall back asleep after they wake me up.”

“Nightmares?” she asked with interest.

“Not always,” replied Stiles. “Just strangely vivid. They leave me feeling... off, I guess.”

Lydia nodded. “I can empathize. Maybe it’s just senior stress?”

“Yeah, maybe,” he answered doubtfully. They sat for a few minutes and finished their coffees. “I’ve got to pick up my gifts and head home now, but it was good seeing you.”

“Same,” said Lydia. “Actually, if you wouldn’t mind, do you think you could give me a ride home? I got dropped off.”

“Yeah, no prob,” said Stiles. They picked up Stiles’ gifts and then stuffed their combined purchases into the backseat of Stiles’ tiny Jeep. Lydia’s place was on the way to Stiles’ own, so it took no time at all to pull up to her house.

“Thanks, Stiles,” said Lydia. She leaned into the back to collect her bags and then gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Merry Christmas,” she said, and then hopped out of the car with a sly smile.

“Merry Christmas,” replied Stiles, a bit too late.

He watched Lydia go with a strange feeling in his chest.

-

The pack Christmas party was scheduled to begin at five on Christmas night. Which was why it was now six o’clock and Stiles was still sprawled across his bed with his laptop, deep in the bowels of the internet. He’d let five texts from various pack members go unanswered and was heavily debating not attending when a knock at his window startled him out of his reverie.

Scott’s disapproving face seemed to only intensify as he opened the window.

“Dude.”

“Uh. I’m getting ready?” Stiles winced, looking down at his boxers and mismatched socks.

“ _Dude_.”

“I’m getting ready!” said Stiles and hurriedly grabbed for his nearest clean pair of jeans. Sliding into them, he hobbled over to his closet to grab the ugly Christmas sweater he’d been saving for just this occasion. He swiped on some deodorant and quickly ran his fingers through his hair, then turned to Scott and threw his arms out to the sides. “See?”

Scott rolled his eyes and vaulted up into Stiles’ bedroom. “Let’s go then. Everyone’s waiting for you.”

His stomach did a small, guilty barrel roll. “Sorry.”

Scott just waved his apology away and helped him juggle his stack of presents to the car. The ride out to the Preserve seemed to take longer than usual, the radio droning out a collection of Christmas classics. Stiles still hadn’t seen or heard from Derek since the events of three days ago which normally wouldn’t have been unusual, but in the wake of their _mistake_ the silence seemed especially damning.

Stiles was jolted from his thoughts as they pulled up in front of the Hale house. Erica was standing outside on the porch, a cigarette dangling from her hand.

“Took you long enough,” she huffed. She seemed to share a knowing look with Scott before he continued into the house.

Stiles paused. “I didn’t know you smoked,” he said.

“I don’t,” said Erica, taking a drag.

“Uh, evidence to the contrary?” Stiles pointed out. “At present.”

“It’s only once a year,” Erica explained. She wrinkled her nose on the exhale and smoke billowed out of her like a dragon. “It reminds me of my dad.”

Stiles felt a pang in his chest. He reached over for Erica’s free hand. “I guess I can understand.”

She gave him a sad smile and squeezed his hand. “I thought you would.”

“Even if it is disgusting.”

Erica stuck out her tongue and stubbed her cigarette out. “Jerk. Are you ready to get over yourself and join the Christmas cheer?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “It can’t be more uncomfortable than any other Christmas party I’ve been forced to go to.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“And if it is,” continued Stiles. “I can always remind everybody about that failed orgy with the werecoyotes.”

It was almost comical how fast Erica’s face transformed. “Who told you about that?” she asked in cold fury. Stiles shrugged, biting back a smile.

“Start digging your grave because you’re dead, Scott McCall! Dead!” she hollered, bursting through the door with Stiles following close behind. Derek and company looked up from the board game they were playing.

“No murder on Christmas,” Derek said jadedly. He drew a card from the deck. “Your turn, Isaac.”

Erica snarled and unleashed her claws as Scott stepped out of the kitchen. He seemed to startle when she lunged for him, but quickly transformed to match her, dodging her first attack. Her second one sent Scott into a wall, however, and not far from the giant Douglas fir that Derek himself had likely trimmed to perfection. Stiles watched the ornaments on the branches shake precariously before one hit the ground and shattered.

Derek sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Take it outside,” he warned.

Scott looked truly annoyed now as he leapt to his feet. His fist glanced over Erica’s jaw as she darted back into the doorway between the family room and kitchen. Erica ducked another punch before countering with her own, opening her hand after it landed to grab a fistful of Scott’s shirt. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles saw Derek stand from the table and Stiles moved away from the door, having a decent idea of where this was going.

 _Rip_. Scott’s shirt tore like wrapping paper as Derek bodily pulled Erica off of him. With his other hand, he grabbed the back of Scott’s neck and herded them out the door. Stiles watched with amusement as Derek, seemingly effortlessly, tossed the two wolves down into the grass like misbehaving pups.

“Stay out here until you learn how to get along again,” he mandated, shutting the door to muffle Erica and Scott’s twin sounds of indignation. Stiles grinned behind his hand.

Derek turned to look at him. In spite of his show of authority, his eyes were warm and amused. “Hi, Stiles,” he said softly.

“Hi,” Stiles replied, ignoring the hot flutter in his stomach. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.” Derek’s smile spoke nothing of the indiscretion that had happened at the club. “You want something to eat? We ate already but I saved you a plate.”

This was pack, Stiles supposed. The confident and undoubting belief that you should save someone a plate even if you hadn’t spoken since you almost sucked their dick in a bathroom. He felt a rush of affection for Derek and the other wolves. That kind of certainty was the reason he’d agreed to join in the first place.

“Sure,” he said.

So, Stiles ate, drank, and made merry with the people he was growing to see as a second family. Derek had procured some wine that even the wolves could get a buzz off of and so they sat around the fireplace exchanging gifts in general good humor. After gifts, desserts came out and soon everyone was sleepy and full. Stiles caught himself nodding off but startled awake when he felt his wine glass being taken.

Derek was standing over him, a soft look on his face. “I got it. Go back to sleep.”

He felt warm and pliable and nothing sounded better, but the events at the club still needled at Stiles’ subconscious.

“Actually, can I talk to you for a minute?” asked Stiles. Derek nodded slowly, his face remaining carefully neutral.

They stepped outside onto the porch. The sun was now long gone and Stiles shivered at the chill that lingered in the air.

“Stiles, I—” began Derek, but Stiles held up a hand to stop him.

“It’s okay. I talked to Scott and he sort of gave me the werewolf/alpha perspective,” said Stiles. “It would’ve been fun, but not if it would’ve put you in a weird spot. I know that it’ll probably be hard enough to give me up whenever my soul mate comes knocking and I don’t want to make that any harder on you than it already is.” He rubbed his arms for warmth. “I like being a part of this pack, but I know it’s not forever. So, whatever you need from me to make it easiest on you, man. Just let me know.”

Derek looked at him for a long moment. “Thanks,” he finally said, a bit awkwardly. “I appreciate that.”

“Just, like,” Stiles scrunched up his face as he searched for the words. “Don’t treat me too differently? You know, even knowing that I’m going to leave someday?”

“Never,” Derek assured him. He reached out and took hold of Stiles’ forearms, grabbing hard enough for Stiles to register the likelihood of future bruising. “You’re family. Even if you leave this pack, you will always be family.”

Stiles let out a breath. He hadn’t realized he’d been seeking reassurance, but now that he had it a weight lifted from his shoulders.

“C’mon,” said Derek. “You’re cold. Let’s go back inside.”

If the brush of Derek’s hand against the small of his back guiding him through the door awoke any sort of feelings in Stiles? Well, he just stomped them down.

He could control himself.

-

“No, you’re—stop that, you’ll hurt him,” Derek snapped. He rubbed a hand over his face, exasperated. “Isaac, switch with Boyd.”

The freedom of winter break dwindling, Stiles had somehow been swindled into joining the pack for an afternoon training session. He still wasn’t sure what exactly the pack was training for— they’d still not seen or heard anything from whoever had placed that hex bag over his window weeks ago— but the sun was warm today and when Derek had asked him if he wanted to learn a little self-defense Stiles hadn't been able to say no.

He checked his stance as Isaac came to take Boyd’s place, moving his weight from foot to foot. Isaac lunged forward and Stiles quickly turned to dodge, using Isaac’s momentum and a well-placed knee to trip him up.

“Good, better,” said Derek. “Now try the wrist grab.”

“Sure,” said Isaac, his fingers closing around Stiles’ wrist. Stiles turned his wrist quickly to try to loosen Isaac’s grip, but Isaac just reached over with his other hand. They struggled for a few moments before Derek stopped them.

“Here, look,” Derek said, motioning for Stiles’ to grab his wrist. “If they grab you with two hands then you have to use two hands, too.” He weaved his free arm through Stiles’ wrists and then rotated the captured wrist until he could pull it free. “You try.” He made Stiles practice the move over and over again, until he nodded in satisfaction and motioned to Isaac.

Stiles spread his feet apart. “Alright. Bring it,” he taunted.

Smirking, Isaac grabbed him again and Stiles quickly realized that Derek had been taking it easy on him. He weaved his arm through Isaac’s grip, but every time he tried to twist it Isaac would move, still holding on tight. He continued to struggle, but the effort of trying to break free was rapidly wearing him down. Stiles took a deep breath and concentrated. There had to be a second wind in him somewhere, right? Wasn’t that a thing?

And then, miraculously, he felt a dizzying rush of strength. Stiles leaned in and ripped his arm out of Isaac’s grasp with a triumphant cry, delighting in his success even further when the werewolf hit the dirt.

“I did it!” he crowed, turning to bask in the glory of Derek's approval. But Derek didn't seem to want to celebrate, his ever-present frown having grown deeper than normal. Stiles deflated a bit and turned back to Isaac, who had propped himself up on one knee, seemingly a bit winded.

“Where the hell did that come from?” he huffed and puffed, a suddenly curmudgeonly wolf in the face of defeat.

“I drew upon my deep wells of power,” Stiles bragged.

Isaac rolled his eyes and reached for Stiles' nearest ankle, sending Stiles crashing down into the dirt next to him. “Deeply deluded, I think.”

Stiles pouted. “I contain multitudes.”

He heard a chorus of snorts and scoffed in mock outrage. “Derek, c'mon, back me up here.”

He looked over at Derek, but it seemed he'd disappeared into the house without a word. Stiles did not have to squash any feelings of confusion or hurt, because they weren't there for him to have. Why would he feel betrayed by something so insignificant? He was a cucumber. Cool. Unflappable. The inner workings of werewolves didn't give him any cause for complaint.

“Traitors, all of you,” he mumbled. “See if I have any mercy once I take over the Empire.”

“We’ll take our chances,” Erica said.

Stiles continued reciting his inner mantra about wolves not stealing his joy.

But then she did help him up in the end, so he maybe wouldn't have to obliterate them during his galactic reign after all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We delve deeper and darker in this one folks! Both into Stiles' magic and Derek's past.

It was dark. Sometime after midnight perhaps, the moon shining just bright enough to cast the shadow of a shadow behind him. Stiles could feel every crunch of leaf underfoot; he could hear every trill and howl carried on the wind. His senses were razor sharp, save his sense of recall. He couldn’t remember what reason had him out here in the dead of night, but he knew it was a good one.

Wait. It was... maybe he was looking for something? No, not something.

Some _one_.

He turned sharply with purpose. It was this way, Stiles was sure of it. The sound of water was growing louder— the river.

_It_ _was near the river._

Stiles woke in bed with a gasp, sitting up swiftly. He sucked in a few calming breaths to slow the cadence of his heartbeat, clenching and unclenching his fists. He leaned over and grabbed for his phone. 3:14 AM.

They were coming more frequently now. And moreover, they were becoming clearer, lingering longer after he woke up. He took another deep breath and let it out slowly. A pervasive sense of malaise clung to him and he fidgeted with his phone, debating texting Scott or Derek. He quickly squashed the thought, feeling silly. They were just dreams. He pulled up a mindless shooter on his phone and let it drive the niggling idea that it could be more than that out of his mind

In the morning, after a few more hours of sleep, Stiles arrived to find that administration had completely fucked his spring schedule. He spent the majority of his first day back waiting in the office for it to be fixed along with the 30 other students who’d been also fucked by whatever technical oversight had enrolled them in three different Spanish classes.

“Hey,” Lydia greeted him after school. “Assuming that you’ve switched into Calc BC, I want to forewarn you that you missed a lot today.”

Stiles groaned. “What kind of sadist makes you take notes on the first day?”

They shared a knowing look. “Harris,” they echoed together.

Lydia sighed in sympathy. “Come over and I’ll let you copy mine. In exchange, you can help me with some manual labor I need to deal with.”

“The true motive always reveals itself,” Stiles teased.

He wasn’t sure how, but it seemed that he and Lydia had slowly become something like friends. They were friendly enough for her to strong-arm him into helping peel potatoes for her mom’s dinner party, at least. It felt strange to Stiles somehow, becoming friends with someone outside of the pack, outside of the realm of crazy/weird that he’d been thrust into ever since that fateful day when Scott wolfed out in front of him for the first time. He lost himself in thought and the motion of peeling, Lydia’s fingers brushing his every so often like butterflies as she took a potato from his hand to slice.

For some people, it might’ve happened in slow motion. But for Stiles it was all lightning fast. The knife slipped, Lydia cried out, the river of blood began to pool at her feet. Stiles didn’t even remember thinking about it. He just reached out and touched her. Time moved with abandon.

And then the next thing he knew, Lydia was healed.

“What?” Lydia whispered, staring blankly down at her hand. She rinsed it under the faucet. “It’s-- it’s gone. But the blood...” She looked back and forth between her unblemished hand and the puddle of blood underfoot with an enduring uncertainty that Stiles couldn’t begin to explain.

Stiles’ head felt dizzy, his skin suddenly clammy, and his pulse jumped under his skin. He scrambled back in growing shock and horror.

“I gotta go,” he sputtered and then turned around and fled.

He started the car with trembling hands and only made it two blocks before he had to pull over. He stopped and put his head down on the steering wheel, trying to focus on breathing and fighting the black dots that were beginning to creep in along the edges of his vision.

His door opened and he somehow knew without looking that it was Derek.

“Scoot over,” said Derek gently. Stiles sucked in a deep breath and did so, moving over so Derek could slide into the driver’s seat. Derek rested a hand on Stiles’ back. “Are you okay?”

Stiles nodded. Derek seemed to judge his response decent enough and he put the Jeep into drive. The whole way to the Preserve he kept his hand on Stiles’ back, rubbing and murmuring assurances while Stiles tried to breathe control back into his body.

When the car stopped, Stiles opened his eyes.

“Thanks,” he tried to say, but his voice sounded like gravel. He cleared his throat. “Thanks.”

“What happened?” asked Derek.

“I used magic,” Stiles whispered into the quiet of the car. It was as if he were afraid to say it out loud. Like that would make it real, which was stupid because it _was_ real.

Derek nodded sagely, as if he expected this answer. “What kind of magic?”

“I healed someone.”

Sagacious Derek was not expecting that. He blinked. “You healed someone.”

“Yes.”

“With your magic.”

Stiles nodded.

“Okay. Let’s go inside,” said Derek.

When they were both sitting on the couch with a cup of tea, Derek tried again. “So, let me get this straight. You think you healed someone with your magic?”

Stiles felt a prickle of irritation. “I don’t just think I healed her. I _did_ heal her.”

“Okay. Start from the beginning.”

“I was at Lydia’s house--”

“Who's Lydia?”

“This girl I know from school. We were cutting potatoes and her knife slipped. She cut herself real bad, Derek. The blood was all over the floor. And then-- I don’t know. I touched her and her hand was healed. As if it never happened.”

“How did it feel?” Derek asked him intently.

Stiles thought back. “Hot, then not. Like I was taking all the heat out of me and giving it to her. It was just so _fast_ , Derek, I didn’t even think about it. I just touched her and it happened.”

Derek’s face seemed to increase in broodiness. “And how did you feel after?”

“I got a head rush. Felt dizzy and shaky. You know, you saw it.”

“Would you say you feel weaker? Sapped of energy?”

Stiles thought. “Yeah, that sounds appropriate.”

“It sounds like how we feel when we take pain.” Derek stood up and started to pace across the room. Stiles liked to walk around as he thought aloud; he was growing to realize that it was a habit he and Derek shared. “But that’s just pain, what you did was healing. A very accelerated healing. Something I haven’t seen done in a long time.” Derek shook his head. “Your magic is developing much faster than I expected. You’re not researching online and practicing, right?”

Stiles shook his head. He hadn’t even thought to check.

“Good, don’t. You need a teacher, a real one with experience.” Derek sighed. “If I could just find one.”

“No luck then?” asked Stiles bleakly.

“I’ve asked around, but no one is willing to take on an apprentice from our pack,” Derek said sourly.

There was something more there, Stiles could tell. “From our pack?” he repeated carefully.

Derek frowned. “It’s just politics, Stiles. Stupid politics that don’t concern you.”

“Oh, really?” Stiles could feel his temper heating. “Because from where I’m standing it seems to concern me an awful lot if these politics are the reason no one will teach me.”

“I’m going to figure out a way to work around it. Just give me time, okay? It’s only been a few weeks.”

“Fine,” he replied mulishly. “But if I die in the meantime, I’m coming back to haunt you.”

“You’re not going to die.” Derek rolled his eyes.

Stiles pretended not to hear the _‘drama queen’_ muttered under his breath.

-

He knew that it was cold, but he couldn’t feel it.

It was dark again, another late night in the woods. Stiles walked through the undergrowth with determination. The dead leaves stuck to his feet as he strained to hear the bubbling water. He knew it was near the river. He just needed to keep looking.

A bird shrieked in the distance, but he paid no mind. Only the sounds of rushing water concerned him. The river grew louder as he came closer, the soil growing softer and loamier. He could see it now, the dark, undulating blackness, the silver moonlight glinting off its surface. He needed something now... someone? He couldn’t remember.

_Dig it up._

Stiles awoke in terror again. He shivered and gasped, pulling the blankets closer around him as he sat up. He checked the time. 2:51 AM.

It was becoming ritual now. The nightmare in the woods, always the same dream, always waking him just as he remembered something. He knew there was something he was missing, but every time it seemed like he got close to an answer another piece of the puzzle would throw him for a loop. He reached over for his phone and sent a text to both Derek and Scott before he could think about it too much. Just a simple, _you up?_ Nothing that would cause alarm.

Somewhat predictably, his phone rang within a minute, buzzing across his nightstand and lighting up the room with Derek’s frowny face.

“Hey,” Stiles answered.

“Hey,” Derek replied. His voice was a little thick from sleep. “What’s up?”

Stiles blew out a breath. “Okay, so I don’t want you to think I’m crazy. Or that I’m freaking out over nothing--”

“Just tell me, Stiles.”

“I keep having these recurring nightmares. About walking through the Preserve at night, searching for something. It sounds stupid, I know, but it’s every night and I just can’t shake it.”

“It doesn’t sound stupid,” said Derek softly. “Do you feel scared inside the dream?”

“No, I don’t. I feel totally sure of everything I’m doing. It’s only after, when I wake up, that I feel scared.” He sighed and swung his legs over the edge of the bed to get up.

“And how long have you been having them?”

“A few months. But only they started happening every night like two weeks ago.”

“Really?” Derek sounded cross. “A few months and you’re just now telling us?”

Stiles looked down then and his heart froze in his chest.

There they were, stuck to his feet. Wet, dead leaves.

“Derek,” he said. “You need to get over here.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m fucking sleepwalking! The bottoms of my pajamas are wet and there’s leaves all over my feet!” Stiles hissed into the phone. “Or-- I don’t know, hallucinating, or something. Fuck. _Fuck._ ”

“It’s gonna be okay,” said Derek. Stiles could hear the sounds of Derek starting his Camaro and he clutched the phone a little tighter. “Just calm down. I’ll be there soon and we’ll figure it out.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the squishy human wandering around in a fucking forest of predators,” Stiles whispered hotly. Derek kept him distracted by asking for more details. What was he looking for in the dream? Did he know what part of the Preserve the dreams were taking place in? Stiles answered them as best he could, pacing across the room. His horror refused to abate, lessening only once he'd caught sight of Derek crawling through his window.

“I do have a front door, you know,” Stiles said.

“I know,” replied Derek. He motioned for Stiles to sit on the bed and then he crouched down next to him, gently lifting one of Stiles’ legs and sniffing at the fabric. It was testament to how weird his life had become that Stiles didn’t even bat an eye.

“Well?” he asked.

Derek’s brow furrowed thoughtfully. “I can’t smell any traces that you’ve been in the Preserve. My guess is that you were probably just wandering around your backyard.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll check outside for your tracks, but yeah, it seems most likely.” Derek stood up and then immediately tensed. Stiles watched his nostrils flare. “Something doesn’t smell right,” Derek said, turning in a small circle.

“What do you mean?” asked Stiles.

“There’s something here that shouldn’t be,” Derek answered cryptically. Stiles watched him search the room, his heart clenching when Derek came dangerously close to his hidden stash of sex toys, before he stopped at the head of his bed. Stiles climbed down and watched Derek sniff his pillows and bed sheet, which was strangely hot until he thought about all the dried jizz Derek was probably getting a whiff of— then it was just straight-up embarrassing. Derek slid his hands under the pillows, feeling around for something, and then made a noise of discovery and lifted a corner of Stiles’ sheet, pulling out a small, black felt bag.

“Well, shit,” said Stiles. “How long has that been there?”

Derek leveled him with a dry and disapproving look. “A few months, wasn’t it?”

“You think it’s been there that long?” Stiles looked at his rumpled bed and felt a wash of unease. “I mean, I don’t know much about hex bags, but I’ve had plenty of wolves in here since that first one was planted, including you, and nobody’s said squat until now.”

“I was already on alert this time,” Derek admitted. “It’s plausible that it could’ve escaped notice.”

“You need to let me learn from Deaton.”

Derek seemed taken aback by his non sequitur. “What?”

“I need to learn magic, Derek, and I need to learn now. I can’t wait for you to resolve political bullshit,” he said. “Whatever this thing is, it’s after _me_. We don’t know why and we’re not going to find out unless you let me train with him.”

Stiles watched Derek’s jaw clench and his mouth thin. “You know how I feel about this.”

“Yeah, I do know. And you should know how I feel, which is really fucking scared,” said Stiles. Derek’s face softened as he looked at him, so Stiles pressed on. “I woke up tonight and found out that these nightmares are controlling me; I healed someone today who should’ve needed stitches! Derek, I’m not prepared for any of this. I need someone to help me.”

“You have me,” Derek seemed to blurt out. Then slower, more softly, he added, “You have my help.”

Stiles felt his chest grow warm. He reached for Derek’s hand and squeezed it. “I know that, Derek. And I appreciate it so much, I do. But you can’t help me with this.”

Derek looked down at their joined hands for a moment and then finally sighed in defeat.

“Okay. I’ll talk to Deaton.”

-

Alan Deaton didn’t play.

The first day of his training, Deaton pushed a stack of heavy tomes into his arms, instructing Stiles to not come back until he had read them all. He then escorted Stiles outside and left him standing on the doorstop.

“But what if I have questions?” Stiles yelled through the door.

“That’s what the books are for,” came Deaton’s disembodied reply.

So, Stiles went home and spent the next week demolishing titles like _Werewolf Lore and Tradition_ and _A Beginner’s Overview of Magick and Magickal Work_. He took pages of notes on channeling, maps of power leys, werewolf customs, the basic rules of spellcraft; in the margins of those notes he jotted down more questions. What types of magic were there? How did he end up having this power? What could he use it to do?

Derek stopped over each night to make sure Stiles didn’t wander out of bed, but it seemed that removing the hex bag had caused the dreams to abate. Stiles used his time with Derek to pepper him with questions, which Derek answered genially. He didn’t know much about the specifics of magic, but Stiles found he had a surprisingly large knowledge base when it came to generalities.

“What’s an emissary?” Stiles asked one night. Derek sighed and rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder, gazing at the ceiling. Stiles had come to understand this as a stalling gesture.

“It’s like the pack’s advisor,” he answered. “Usually a non-wolf person, like a magic user. The emissary helps guide the alpha in making the right decisions.”

“Cool,” Stiles said. He scribbled down some notes and went back to the page he was reading. A few minutes passed by with only the sounds of Stiles leafing through his book and fidgeting with his pen.

“Deaton was our emissary.” Derek blurted, breaking the silence.

Stiles lowered the pen from his mouth. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I guess he technically still is, since I never replaced him.”

“Whoa.” Stiles digested this new information. “I’m guessing that fact becomes relevant in the tale of how you came to hate his guts.”

“You’d be right,” Derek answered grimly.

“Not that I’m asking you to tell me,” Stiles rushed to add. “But, I mean, I can fill in some blanks.”

“Can you?” Derek’s expression was growing stormier, so Stiles decided to shut the fuck up and go back to his book. They continued in silence again for a few minutes, until Derek broke it once more.

“My mother chose Deaton as her emissary,” began Derek. Stiles looked over at him, closing the book around his thumb to mark his page. “Usually, when a new alpha rises to power they’ll choose an emissary on the older side. And if the alpha outlives the emissary, then they choose a younger one. It’s a traditional practice, you know? Hoping to achieve that balance between progression and wisdom.” Derek smiled a wry smile. “My mother wasn’t too keen on tradition.

“Deaton’s family and my own had ties for a few generations before he was appointed, though. I think his grandmother was emissary to my great-grandfather. Anyway, Deaton became emissary not long after I was born. And I grew up thinking of him as something like an uncle,” Derek spat. His eyes shone with icy resentment. “Then, when I was fourteen, I met someone.”

“Someone like...?”

“A woman. A werewolf hunter,” said Derek. “We fell in love.” He laughed bitterly. “No, _I_ fell in love,” he sneered. “I was young and stupid; I didn’t see her for what she was. But Deaton knew.”

“Knew she was a hunter?” asked Stiles.

Derek nodded. “He knew it all. Knew that she was a hunter, knew that she was toying with me,” he said. “He told me later that he was laying a trap. That I was the bait,” said Derek with a scoff. “But his trap didn’t work. And that bitch burned my family to ashes.”

Stiles blanched. “You don’t mean--” He leaned back as Derek stood up with sudden urgency, chest heaving.

“She poured mountain ash around the exterior of the house first, to make sure that no one could get out. When they woke to the smell of gasoline, it was already too late.” Derek’s words reached down into the depths of Stiles, stirring something terrible there. He couldn’t meet Derek’s face any longer, so he instead stared at Derek’s fists, watching how they trembled.

“When the screams started, I rushed over. But I could do nothing but listen to them howl as they burned,” said Derek, voice quavering now as much as his hands were. Thin rivulets of blood began to drip down his palms. Stiles traced each one with his eyes, a faint vibration rising in his ears. “The children were the worst. They didn’t cry for long, at least.”

“How did you survive?” Stiles heard himself ask.

“We were at our hideout in the woods. She drugged me with something, knocked me out cold.” He paused and unclenched his fists. The vibration in Stiles’s ears was a buzzing now, growing louder with each word Derek uttered. “I still don’t know why she spared me. Was it for mercy or misery?” Derek shook his head in disgust.

“Does it matter?” Was he yelling? The buzzing was deafening. It sounded like hundreds of flies, thousands, even.

“No, I guess not,” replied Derek. “She’s dead now anyway.”

Stiles _knew_. He somehow just _knew_. “You killed her.” The flies roared, a terrible wave of sound.

Derek’s eyes met his and the buzzing just stopped.

“Yes, I killed her.”

“Good.” Stiles said. He looked at Derek’s hands again, his clawed fingers dripping with blood. And then Stiles, with nothing else to say, looked down into his own palms. There he saw eight tiny marks. He traced them with his fingertips. And then stopped. The world tilted.

Stiles put a hand out to steady himself, then stood and walked over to Derek. He reached out for Derek, and before Derek could realize what he was doing, Stiles sliced his arm open with one of Derek's clawed hands. “Stiles! What the hell?” Derek barked, jumping back.

Almost in unison, they both looked from Stiles’ cut to Derek’s arm.

There, they watched as a soul mark slowly bloomed into existence in exactly the same spot on Derek’s body.

 


End file.
